"But I want the other clothes, the beautiful blue dress. These things are so dreadfully patched and darned," said Peter, in a lamentable tone.

"And I have brought something nice for you too, Mother dear. It's in the pockets of the blue coat."

"You haven't got a blue coat, child," said his mother. "Come, come. Put on your clothes and come into the warm kitchen." And she carried Peter out into the arm-chair by the breakfast-table, and began to pour out some coffee for him. And she put the Parsnip-man (who had been lying all night behind the stove) into his hand. "See," she continued, "here's your Parsnip-man, about whom you have been dreaming all this fine nonsense."

Peter examined it with eager eyes. It looked exactly the same as it had done the night before.

"But Mary was there too," he said, still doubtfully. "She is the Queen of the Parsnip-men, you know. And she gave me cake and wine and fruit."

"Well, we'll ask her about it next time she comes," said his mother, laughing.

Just then there was a knock at the door. The mother hastened to open it, and found a messenger waiting with a letter in his hand which had several seals on it. It was addressed to herself, and beside the address was written, "_Three pounds enclosed._" Having given a small sum to the messenger for his trouble, the widow broke the seals of the letter with trembling fingers. The three pounds were duly enclosed, but no letter accompanied the welcome money.

Overcome with joy, the widow seized Peter, who had crept curiously to her side, in her arms and exclaimed with delight, "Ah! you shall have a nice blue dress, after all, my child."

But when the boy asked, "Who has sent us all this money, Mother?" all she could say was, "I wish I knew, my dear. But you see there is no letter with it."

Then Peter smiled expressively, but said nothing, for he thought--"Mother won't believe me, I know. But who can the money have come from, except from the little Parsnip-man?"

A CHILD'S WISHES.

(_From the German of R. Reinick._)

A certain old knight had a little daughter called Gertrude; and when his brother died, leaving an only son, he took the boy into his castle, and treated him as his own son. The boy's name was Walter. The two children lived together like brother and sister; they only played where they could play together, and were of one heart and of one soul. But one day, when Gertrude had gone out alone to pick flowers beyond the castle gate, some gipsies came along the high-road, who stole the child and took her away. No one knew what had become of her; the poor old father died of grief, and Walter wept long days and nights for his Gertrude.

At last there came a warm spring day, when the trees began to bud, and Walter went out into the wood. There, in a beautiful green spot, a brook bubbled under the trees, where he had often sat with Gertrude, floating little boats of nutsh.e.l.ls on the stream. He sat down there now, cut himself a hazel stick for a hobby-horse, and as he did so he said to himself--

"Ah! if I were but a grown-up knight, as tall and stately as those who used to come to my uncle's castle, I would ride out into the wide world and look for Gertrude!"

Meanwhile, he heard something screaming near him, and when he looked up he saw a raven, which was stuck so fast between two branches of a tree that it could not move, whilst a snake was gliding towards it to devour it. Walter hastily seized his stick, beat the snake to death, and set the raven free.

"A thousand thanks, my dear child!" said the raven, who had flown up into a tree, from which he spoke--"a thousand thanks! And now, since you have saved my life, wish for whatever you like, and it shall be granted immediately. A year hence we will speak of this again."

When Walter heard this, he saw at once that the raven was an enchanted bird, and exclaimed with joy--

"I should like to be a n.o.ble knight with a helmet and a shield, a charger and a sword!"

All happened just as he wished. In an instant he was a tall, stately knight; his shield stood near him, and his hobby-horse became a proud charger, which, to show that it was no ghost, but a real horse of flesh and blood, began then and there to drink out of the stream.

At first, Walter could not think what had happened to him, but stood as if he were in a dream. Soon, however, a new life seemed to wake within him; he swung himself on to his horse with all the energy of youth, and rode far out into the land to look for little Gertrude.

Like other knights, he met with many adventures on his way. There was always something to contend with, either wild beasts or else knights, who, like himself, roved about the country delighting to find any one with whom they could do battle. On every occasion, however, Walter came off conqueror, for he was far more valiant than any of his opponents.

At last, one day he came within sight of a mountain, on which stood a high castle belonging to a certain queen. As he reached the summit, he saw from afar a little maiden, who sat playing with her doll before the castle gate, and when he drew nearer he found that it was his little Gertrude. Then he put spurs to his horse and shouted joyfully--

"Good-day, dear Gertrude!" But the child knew him not. As he drew nearer, he called again: "It is I indeed!--it is Cousin Walter!" but the child believed him not. And when he sprang from his horse to kiss her, and his armour, sword, and spurs rattled and clashed as he did so, the child was afraid that this strange man would hurt her, and she ran away back into the castle.

Poor Walter was very much troubled. He went in, however, and presented himself to the queen, who received him very graciously. He told her all that had happened, and learnt from her that she had bought Gertrude from the gipsies. But when he begged that she would let him take his dear little cousin away with him, she consented only on condition that the child herself should be willing, for Gertrude had become very dear to the old queen. So she called the little maid in, and said--

"Now look here, my child: this really is your Cousin Walter. Do you no longer love him, and will you not go away with him?"

The child looked at the knight from head to foot, and then said in a troubled voice--

"Since you both declare that it is Walter, I suppose I must believe it.

Ah! if only he were still as little as he was a year ago, I would go into the wide world with him, wherever he wanted; but now, I never can.

It would be no good, whilst he is like that. If I wanted to play hide-and-seek, as we used to do, his armour would shine, and his spurs rattle, and I should know where he was directly. If I wanted to go to school with him, he could not sit by me on the little benches at the little tables. Then what could a poor child like me do for such a stately knight? If I tried to work for him, I should burn my little hands; if I tried to make his clothes, I should p.r.i.c.k my little fingers; and if I ran races with him, I should hurt my little feet. If I were a grown-up princess, indeed, it would be a different thing."

Walter could not but feel that what Gertrude said was true. So he took leave of them both, mounted his horse, and rode away; but the queen and Gertrude watched him from the battlements of the castle.

He had not ridden many steps when a voice from a tree called "Walter!

Walter!" and when he looked up, there was the raven, who said--

"A year has pa.s.sed since you wished to be a knight. If you have another wish, speak, and it shall be granted; but observe, what you wished before will then be at an end."

To these last words Walter paid no attention. The raven had no sooner said that he might have another wish than he interrupted it, exclaiming: "Then I wish Gertrude to be a grown-up princess!"

But even as he spoke he himself became a child again, and his horse a hobby-horse, just as they had been a year ago. But when he looked up to the battlements, there stood by the queen a wonderfully beautiful princess, tall and slim and stately; and this was--his Gertrude! Then the boy, taking his hobby-horse, went back up to the castle steps, and wept bitterly. But the queen was sorry for him, took him in, and tried to comfort him.

And now there was another trouble. Dearly as the Princess Gertrude and the boy Walter loved each other, they were not so happy as they should have been. If Walter said to her, "Come, Gertrude, and we'll run races, and jump over the ditches," she would answer, "Oh! that would never do for a princess; what would people say?"

If Walter said, "Come and play hide-and-seek," Gertrude would answer again, "Oh! but that would never do for a princess; I should leave my train hanging on the thorns, and my coronet would be tumbling off my head."

Then if Gertrude asked Walter to bring in some venison for the table, the boy would bring her a mouse instead; and if a bull or a mad dog came after them, Gertrude must s.n.a.t.c.h Walter up in her arms, and run off with him, for she was so much bigger than he, and could run a great deal quicker. Meanwhile he remained in the castle, and the boy became very dear to the old queen.

Another year pa.s.sed by, and one morning Gertrude sat under a tree in the garden with her embroidery, whilst Walter played at her feet. Then, as before, a voice called out of the tree, "Walter! Walter!" And when the boy looked up, the raven was sitting on a branch, who said: "Now once more you may wish, and it shall be granted; but this is the last time, therefore think it well over."

But Walter did not think long before he answered: "Ah! let us both be children all our lives long."

And as he wished so it happened. They both became children as before, played together more happily than ever, and were of one heart and of one soul.

But when another year had pa.s.sed by, and the children sat plucking flowers and singing together in the garden, an angel flew down from heaven, who took them both in his arms and carried them away--away to the celestial gardens of Paradise, where they are yet together, gathering the flowers that never fade, and singing songs so wondrously beautiful, that even the blessed angels hear with joy.

WAR AND THE DEAD.

A DRAMATIC DIALOGUE.

(_From the French of Jean Mace._)

Dramatis Personae.

Peace.